Duchess Decadence (6 page)

How much time did they have until the Privy Council released Eustace? A few hours? A day? A protective fervor swept through her body. She untangled out of his arms. Soon, very soon, he would learn she had seen and even spoken to Eustace last night. When he found out, he would feel hurt and betrayed by her silence.

She would not lose the shining, golden chance she’d just been handed.

“What is it?” He searched her face for some answer. “Should I not have spoken—?”

“No,” she took hold of his hands. “No—it’s only something has—”
Goodness
. Why did she have to be the one to tell him? “Has Mr. Harrison been to see you today?”

“He came.” Wynchester cleared his throat. “Bates turned him away. I was in no condition for company.”

She braced herself with the bench. Sensing her intention, he stood and helped her to her feet. He looked down with tenderness and concern shining in his eyes. She had never—
ever
—seen such an expression in his eyes.
Oh God
. It was wrong,
wrong
to have this moment snatched from her grasp.

“I,” she faltered, “I cannot tell you what your offer means.”

He grimaced. “I should have made the offer long ago.”

Ah, but that left her aching. “Thank you,” she repeated.

His brows drew together in an expression of discomfort. “Let us leave off thanks. Perhaps then we can also leave off recriminations.”

Another dull ache
. Wyn was trying, poor dear, trying as he’d never tried before. Damn Eustace. This was not
fair
.

“A moment please, Wynchester,” she said. “There is something important you should know.”

“Go on,” he said, discomfit subtly progressing to worry.

“Last night,” she started, “I sent your carriage home.”

“Yes,” he said. “And you told the coachman to remove all spirits from the house. Not that I blame you,” he added.

“No—no, that’s not it at all,” she said in a rush. “The spectacle does not concern me. Harrison’s visit does. He came to tell you what happened
after
you and the other guests departed.”

He frowned. “Duchess, you are pale. Whatever it is, it will be well. Come, sit.”

She shook her head no. If she did not tell him quickly, she would lose courage altogether. “The most extraordinary thing happened,” she struggled to recall the first time Harrison had seen Eustace, “when Lavinia was suspected of murder.”

“The Furies,” he said with some bitterness.

She ignored his tone. “While investigating, Harrison and Harrison’s man Sullivan thought they recognized someone they’d known in India. Last night,” She swallowed, “I, too, confirmed his identity.”

“India?” His frown deepened. “Who do you know in India?”

“Last night,” she repeated, paying his question no heed, “the man Harrison recognized shot Sophia’s half-sister.”

“Good God!” Wynchester tightened his hold. “Were you near?”

“Not when the shot was fired.” She paused to gather breath and strength.

“The Furies are trouble.” An angry light entered his eyes. “After something like this surely you must see—”

“Wynchester,” she interrupted, “you asked who I would know in India.”

His brow furrowed and his cheeks grew taut. She said a quick prayer.
Whatever happens, help me keep him safe
.

“Your brother,” she said, studying his reaction, “is alive.”

…

Her words clanged in his head—out-of-tune and grating.

“Lord Eustace?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, urgently.

“My brother?”

“Yes,” she repeated.

“Is alive?”

“Oh, Wyn,” she said breathlessly.

His knees bent, his thighs hit the bench and his elbow, the keys. A sudden, outward cacophony to match the one inside.

“Wynchester!” she exclaimed, followed quickly by a cry of, “Bates! Bates! Come quickly!”

His brother was alive? And Thea Marie had seen him last night? “Why did you not tell me at once?”

Worriedly, she searched his gaze. “I—I thought you had been told.”

“How?” he frowned.

“By Harrison, of course.”

“Of course.” There was nothing
of course
about this situation. One moment he’d been holding her in his arms,
finally
able to confront their loss, and then…

He blinked at his wife, studying the ripple between her brows. Something was
off
. Perhaps talk of the past had altered her in some way. Perhaps she was not quite right. Perhaps she believed the dead were living and the impossible was “
of course
.”

“Are you well, Duchess?” he asked carefully.

“Yes, I am well,” she said. “Bates!”

Footsteps sounded in the gallery.

“Bates,” he called, “the duchess has suffered a shock.”

She blinked. “
I’ve
suffered a shock?”

“What’s happened, Duchess?” said a man who was not Bates.

He turned in unison with Thea. Harrison stood just inside the door. Bates shadowed him, wringing his hands.

“Please forgive me, Your Grace,” Bates said. “Mr. Harrison would not be stopped.”

“That is fine,” he said, at the same time Thea said, “Very well.”

Wyn glanced askance at his wife. Her expression matched his surprise and concern. She spoke to Harrison.

“I’ve just told him Eustace is alive.”

“I see.” Harrison clasped his hands behind his back. “I should have returned sooner.”

“But then,” Wynchester rose and stepped toward Harrison, “she has not gone mad?”

“Wynchester!” she exclaimed.

“Well,” Wynchester glanced back, “you must acknowledge good reason for concern.”

“Your wife is not touched,” Harrison said. “Lord Eustace is alive.”

Alive
. His brother, whom he believed was dead and buried far away in unhallowed ground, was
alive
. He swiveled back to his duchess and grabbed her arms.

“Thea Marie!”

“
Please
do not be angry…”

Her tone…that was what was
off
. She sounded afraid.

“Angry?” he asked in astonishment. “Eustace is alive! And—and you are home!”

With one arm, he crushed her to his chest and with his other hand, he tilted up her face. He murmured her name in happy reverie and then he claimed her lips in a kiss filled with the sense of promise flooding his veins.

She remained still beneath his kiss. Still, but with an involuntary tremor. He broke away. Her pale cheeks were flushed and her eyes wide.

“Harrison,” she panted, “Wynchester may be the one in shock.”

“In shock?!” Wynchester laughed. “I am thrilled!
Thrilled,
I say. What greater gift than this? Where is he, Harrison? Is he well? Let us get him. We shall all go home to Wynterhill.”

Thea Marie appeared distinctly
not
thrilled.

“What is the matter with you?” Wynchester asked. He turned to Harrison, who had not said another word. “And you?”

“Did you not understand?” Thea asked. “Last night, Eustace shot Sophia’s sister
dead
.”

Ah, yes. She
had
said something about those damnable Furies and a shot, hadn’t she?

“There must be,” he said, “
some
explanation.”

He hadn’t even known Lady Randolph
had
a sister, was it not reasonable he remain unmoved? Thea Marie, on the other hand, looked as if she might swoon. He tried to think of something to say—but the joy of his brother’s return buzzed louder than rational thought.

“I am sorry for your friend,” he said.

“There was blood,” she replied, looking at him with an odd expression.

Blood
. Of course. Such a sight would have brought back painful memories. He reached out, cupped her chin, and ran a soothing thumb along her cheek. He had given her sensibilities no more consideration than he’d had in the past. Well, he intended to be different, now. More solicitous.

After all, fate had been in his dice last night, and today Providence had granted him a miracle.

“Bates,” he said, “Her Grace requires assistance.”

“
I
need assistance?” she asked.

His wife
. He cradled her jaw.
His brother
. All three of them together. Yesterday had begun in despair. Today could hold no greater joy. Two of his wishes had been answered. And the third… His expression softened.
A family
.

“You must take care, Thea Marie,” he said. “Why don’t you rest,” he broke into a wide grin, “while I collect my
brother
?”

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, dear.”

“Do not fret.” He kissed her brow. “It will be well. I will
make
it well.” He turned back to Bates. “Will you help the duchess to her rooms?”

“My rooms,” Thea gave a frantic, little chuckle.

“Where is he, Harrison?” Wynchester asked.

“The Privy Council,” Harrison replied, “is prepared to release him into your care.”

“There now,” Wynchester swung back to his wife. “Would the Council release a murderer?”

Her gaze settled on Harrison. Harrison pursed his lips and shook his head no. A distinct look of weariness settled over her features. Something had passed between the two. There was more here than he understood—but no matter. He would take charge and all would be well. Taking charge was a duke’s office.

“You will take me to him,” he said to Harrison—more command than question.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Harrison said, dropping his usual familiarity.

“To my rooms, Bates?” Thea Marie asked.

Wynchester caught her arm as she passed. In her eyes he saw none of her usual haughty reserve.

“You understand I must go,” he said, suddenly uncertain.

She smiled faintly. “You always frame questions as statements.”

Why did he feel like a rook sliding on a bishop’s angle? “I suppose I do.”

“I understand.” As she passed Harrison she touched his arm and requested Lavinia write her a letter.

“Duchess,” Wynchester called.

Pausing with one hand on the doorframe, she glanced over her shoulder. “Yes?”

A sinking sensation weighted his stomach. “You will be well?”

“I will, Duke.” She turned away and he barely heard her amended finish. “
My
duke.”

Chapter Four

Over the next fortnight, Eustace resumed his place in the household, obsequious and grateful to the duke but distantly polite while in Thea’s presence. Club-and-coffee-house efforts to squelch rumor and innuendo concerning Eustace’s absence and mysterious return consumed Wynchester. In the little time Wynchester allotted for home, he assumed the marriage mask Thea remembered well—formal with his version of due respect and deference. His only request had been that she plan a soiree to celebrate Eustace’s return.

Since she refused to stoop so low as to knock on his bedchamber door, the soiree was her only hope to recapture his regard.

On the afternoon preceding the party, the Furies gathered in the seclusion of Thea’s bedchamber.

She smoothed out the skirts of her new dress, scrutinizing her robe à la polonaise in the floor-to-ceiling looking glass.

Her bodice and skirt, both dyed the deep purple once reserved for royalty, transformed her light blue eyes to an ethereal violet. And the open overskirt, trimmed with black satin and seeded with pearls, shimmered where the fabric draped, accenting her still-slender waist.

But the crowning piece of her personal design was the black petticoat
beneath
the open skirt. In an arguably vulgar display, she’d ordered the Wynchester crest and motto
fidelitas et officium
—fidelity and duty—embroidered in silver-gray thread.

“How very,” Lavinia raised her brows, “unexpected.”

“I had,” Thea said dryly, “no precedent to follow.”

“Really?” Sophia chuckled. “I cannot believe there has
never
been a soiree held in celebration of a presumed-dead heir’s return.”

“Not one presided over by a disreputable duchess,” Thea made a mock curtsey, “recently restored to her unimpeachable duke.”

“I hear,” Lavinia said, with a mock
-
conspiratorial air, “it is a must-attend event.”

“Every invitation was accepted.” Thea grimaced. “Were this a normal year, most of the
ton
would have retired to their estates by now. Curse the recent elections and our new Chancellor of the Exchequer and Leader of the House, Mr. Pitt. July is no time for Parliament to be in session.”

“Harrison believes,” Lavinia said, “Pitt will keep Parliament in session until he is assured his East India Regulation bill will pass.”

Thea sighed. So much for seeing Wynterhill anytime soon.

“Are you sure you want to go through with this?” Sophia asked.

“Not only must I attend,” Thea lifted her chin, “tonight, I must change Wynchester’s course. Until we have proof of Eustace’s crimes and intentions, I am Wynchester’s protection against whatever Eustace has planned.” She
could not
and
would not
let the viper triumph.

Sophia tilted her head. “Ah, I understand, now.” She entwined her fingers with Thea’s. “The crest is meant to challenge anyone who would question your position.”

“Eustace in particular,” Thea replied. “Besides, if I must dance with the devil, I insist on being extravagantly dressed.”

Lavinia broke into a grin. “Inspired, dear Decadence. And these ringlets,” she lifted one of the black curls cascading out of a crowned center down Thea’s back, “add the perfect touch…innocent as a bride and proof a duchess need not follow fashion.”

Sophia folded her arms. “I profess myself proud.”

Thea ran her fingers over the embroidery. “I suspect I have hit with a sledge when a switch might have done.”

“Well,” Lavinia chuckled, “you will certainly command attention.”

Ah, but would she command
Wynchester’s
attention? His was the only attention that mattered. And it mattered more than she wanted to admit.

“At the very least,” she sighed, “the boning in the bodice will keep me straight as an oak—no matter what whispers follow me tonight.”

Lavinia squeezed Thea’s hand. “You will not be cut.
No one
is high enough in the instep to displease Wynchester.”

“Besides,” Sophia flicked the gems hanging from Thea’s right ear, “whispers are easier to bear when heard through ears glittering with diamonds.”

“Well,” Thea cast Sophia a sideways smile, “if I cannot win the
ton’s
hearts with my triumphant return, I plan to leave them awed.”

“Are the hearts of the matrons,” Lavinia asked, “the only hearts you wish to win?”

Thea brushed non-existent dust from her sleeve. “Eustace is a threat to Wynchester’s life. That is the only reason I returned.”

She had not told the Furies about the connection she and Wynchester had shared. They would not forgive Wynchester for his hasty retreat after such a soul-bearing moment, because they did not know him in the same way.

“Lavinia,” Sophia asked, “do you recall the day a growing mob trapped the three of us inside Vaile house?”

Lavinia shuddered. “How could I forget?”

“Correct me if I am wrong,” Sophia continued, “but did not a musket-brandishing Duke of Wynchester help disperse the crowd?”

“He did,” Lavinia replied, “…by the side of my Mr. Harrison, of course.”

“Ah,” Sophia sighed. “I
thought
I was remembering correctly. Was that the same afternoon we heard Thea call the grand Duke
Wyn
?”

“I believe,” Lavinia said, eyes over-wide, “that was right before
Wyn
pulled her into the hall.”

Sophia’s lifted her brows in a saucy manner. “I wonder what they discussed…”

“Enough,” Thea said. “Wynchester
did
place himself in peril. A kiss of thanks was only appropriate.”

“A
kiss
,” Lavinia echoed to Sophia. “And in addition to that kiss, let us not forget Wynchester’s romantic,” she held her fingers the width of a halfpenny, “though a mite primitive, display the night he won Thea’s wager.”

Sophia smiled warmly. “My husband laid him out with a single blow.”

Lavinia laughed. “How you smile when you think of Lord Randolph! …but back to the duke.”

“Yes, the duke,” Sophia agreed. “Wynchester did look
devastatingly
disheveled—a man who had reached his rope’s frayed end.”

Thea’s lip quirked up as she thought of the staid duke’s attempt to carry her off like a marauding pirate. His passion had been affecting—disconcertingly so. As had the vulnerability he’d shown when she’d played him the song she’d composed.

“Come, you two,” Thea scolded, “I have always been fully aware of Wynchester’s corporeal…”

“Gifts?” Lavinia supplied helpfully.

Thea gave her a hard look. “His
gifts
were never the problem.”

Sophia laid a warm hand on Thea’s arm. “Have you and he…?”

Thea shook her head
no
. “Not since I returned.” They might have, if she had not needed to tell him of Eustace’s return. Or if—she flushed deep scarlet—Wynchester had made it to his carriage the night he’d tried to carry her away. But, following both cases, he’d been given too much time to think and had retreated back behind his walls of rules and order.

“We did not mean to upset you, dearest,” Lavinia said.

“You did not,” she replied.

She
could
despair of ever reaching him again, but deep in her heart’s cynical soup, Wynchester’s tears had caused a lump of hope to coalesce. If the perfect duke had deigned to show imperfection—there could be a chance for them after all.

Thea held out her arms to her friends and said, “Come.”

The three brought their heads together.

“We look nothing alike.” Thea studied their collective reflection in the glass—she, tall and pale, Lavinia wheat-skinned and autumn-eyed, and Sophia, pixie-petite, blonde and stunning. “But we are sisters of spirit, and formidable Furies.”

A shadow passed over Sophia’s features and she inhaled sharply.

“I am sorry,” Thea said. “I did not mean to remind you of your sister.”

Sophia gave Thea a squeeze. “That was not sadness, but a vow of vengeance.”

“The Worthington brothers had better take care,” Lavinia met Sophia’s eyes, “vengeance, and,” her gaze flowed to Thea, “just rewards, are soon to visit them both.”

…

Wynchester always paid his debts. For instance, the cask of fine brandy atop his desk, ready for Harrison to take home. He’d lost a bet with Harrison by insisting Lord Randolph and Sophia would never come together. Fortunately for him, Harrison was generous with his winnings. Wynchester swirled the amber brandy in his glass. He did not spill a drop, though his gaze was fixed not on his drink but on Thea Marie’s portrait.

In portrait, his duchess sat at his feet in two different ways—both beneath the painted Hessians in his companion portrait on the wall and just in front of his diamond-buckled shoes glittering above his carpet. In life—his lips turned up in a rueful smile—Thea Marie would never be so deferential.

A fortnight had passed since he found out his brother lived, and his efforts on Eustace’s behalf had left him little time for his wife. Yet every night he fell to slumber reliving the moment she’d allowed him to enfold her in his arms and give her comfort. The sensation had been unexpectedly poignant.

He’d known he desired her tenderness, and he had guarded against his weakness. What he hadn’t known was how much he’d wanted her to need him, nor how good it would feel to be needed.

When he had held her soft and pliant, for a few short moments his world had been perfectly ordered. Sentiment hadn’t sloshed and swelled and bubbled over, forcing him to act the fool. Instead sentiment had given him strength. The weight of a thousand mistakes had lifted.

…Only to settle again when he’d returned home with Eustace and discovered her softness had vanished.

The intervening days had been hell. He wanted Thea Marie back in his arms and his desire refused to be squelched by duty or reason. He was utterly lost, just as he’d been the night she had disappeared so many years ago.

She had left behind a spattered letter. The ink communicated to him what her words had not. She hated him. She hated him so much she’d not been able to write without crushing the nub of her quill against the paper. What if such hatred still existed within her heart?

The night she’d left, he’d been bereft of everything of value—his brother and heir, the hope of a child, and his maddeningly elusive wife. He had packed her away in a walled part of himself, had forbidden mention of her name from staff and friends alike. But the portrait he had not touched. Removing it would have been final.

…Too much to bear.

He hadn’t known then what to do with the portrait anymore than he knew what to do about the woman now.

He drained the contents of his glass. He swiveled on his heel to face Harrison and Randolph.

“Thank you for the drink, Harrison.”

“Since I won the tipple from you,” Harrison flashed a smile, “I thought sharing only fair.”

“A wager is a wager,” Wynchester lifted his empty glass, “and good reason to make an exception to my temporary exile from Bacchus’s fine pleasures.”

“And since,” Lord Randolph added, “said wager was placed at my expense, I graciously receive my cut.” He took a draught. “Ah, fine brandy, that. I think I will purchase some for myself.” He rolled his neck from side to side. “I am still on-the-mend from weeks of manual labor.”

“Manual labor,” Wynchester snorted, “is that what they call it these days?”

Harrison coughed. “So you
do
have a sense of humor, Wynchester.”

“Apologies, Randolph.” Wynchester clapped Randolph on the shoulder. “We are not so well acquainted for such a jest.”

“I daresay we must bond, Your Grace,” Randolph assessed him with eyes too keen for Wynchester’s comfort. “Harrison and I are the only ones who can advise you when the Furies commence their inevitable assault.”

Wynchester’s nod concealed unease. Harrison had been a trusted ally in government, but Wynchester was not inclined to share a bond with
anyone
—least of all one inspired by the duchess’s less-than-reputable friends. Yet, after observing The Furies together these past days, he quickly realized any attempt to separate them would be to his detriment.

Harrison made an approving sound as he took a sip from his glass. “When do you believe the duchess will lift her tipple prohibition?”

Wynchester rubbed the jaw Randolph had socked. “After the way I treated her person, perhaps never. I suppose I owe you my thanks, Randolph.” If he’d succeeded in carrying Thea Marie off, he may have succumbed to uninhibited passion—and frightened her away for good, this time.

Randolph acknowledged him with his own version of a barely perceptible nod.

“There will be wine for the guests tonight, of course,” Wynchester continued, “But otherwise I have complied with the duchess’s wish.”

“Do you have trouble controlling…?” Harrison’s questioning sentence hung mid-air before he changed course. “Ah, pay me no mind.”

“Come now, Harrison. You’ve never pulled punches before. You were about to ask if I have trouble controlling my urge to drink. Rest easy. I drink at the club or when I meet with friends.”